


Wish You Were Here

by tartshapedbox (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, referenced consensual underage sibling incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 05:33:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/tartshapedbox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Sam’s birthday, the anniversary of the night he & Dean first became lovers. It should be a day of celebration, a day of candy and gifts and love-making, but instead, Dean’s sitting alone on his kitchen floor with a bottle of the world’s best anesthetic in his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wish You Were Here

Sam’s dead. So is John. There’s no one left but Dean, and it’s days like today that it hits him the hardest. It’s days like today that he realizes the true meaning of loneliness. There’s not one person on this earth that he can call, can go have a beer with, can go hunting with.

Dean smirks. His hunting days were over the second he saw the last flicker of life leave Sammy’s eyes. So was his life. There was nothing on God’s green earth that could make him go on with Sam gone. He was nothing more than an empty shell. It was Sam that had finally given him life, and now he was gone. Everything he ever did for his baby brother went to waste. He’d sold his goddamn soul to keep that kid alive, and what did he get? Night after night of sitting on a cold laminate floor with nothing to do but think and drink.

At first, Dean would cry. He’d cry for hours and hours, letting out every tear he’d held back in the past twenty-four years. He’d scream and throw things and debate on burning his house to the ground with him in it. Then he’d clean himself up and go out and have sex with a random girl just to take his mind off of the pain for even a second. Then he’d go back home and cry some more.

Now, it was like he’d run out of tears. He can’t cry; he can’t even frown. Every ounce of emotion has been drained from him. He’d realized that the last time he’d picked a girl up. His body had no reaction to her; but really? His body had never really reacted to anyone but Sam.

He thinks about a better time:

_It was Sam’s seventeenth birthday, the day he’d given himself to Dean, his older brother, for the first time. That was the night the world finally made sense, like Sam had opened Dean’s eyes to something new and wonderful, and, in a way, he did: Dean realized that he was in love with his little brother, and he’d do anything to keep him close._

So this is what he does. He doesn’t shave, he doesn’t eat, he doesn’t work out. He hasn’t paid his bills in god-knows-how-long. So he sits here in the dark, wasting away.

Dean pulls out his empty wallet and opens it to the picture he has of he and Sam, a few weeks after Sam left Palo Alto with him. They’re standing in front of a gas station in San Antonio, and Sam is smiling for the first time since Jess’s death. Dean stares at the picture for a while, feeling just the slightest tug at his heart. It’s hardly even noticeable. Then, he puts the worn picture back in its slot and pulls out another.

It’s just a picture of Sam, the one they used in a lot of their fake IDs. Sam isn’t even smiling in this one. It’s just him, staring into the camera in front of a boring grey background. The lifeless eyes in the picture seem condescending. It’s like he’s looking at Dean in disapproval for his loyalty to their father again. Even in death, Sam gets the last word. Again, that tiny pull in his chest makes him put the picture away, not wanting to feel anything anymore.

Then he pulls out the only other picture in his wallet; the one he’d taken of a sleeping Sam with that plastic spoon in his mouth. It was what had started that prank war between them when they were investigating the Hell House. A warm feeling spreads through his chest, and for the first time in months, Dean Winchester cracks a little smile.

And then the levee breaks loose.

Everything comes rushing back to him, bombarding Dean’s mind with all the pain and loneliness and guilt and regret he’s been pushing away since the day he buried his brother.

Suddenly, Dean’s standing up, digging his nails into his palms as he knocks everything off of the shelves. He throws plates and appliances, smashes chairs and turns over his table, screaming curses as he does it. His knuckles are broken & bleeding, but he can’t find the time to notice as he rushes towards his bedroom and the gun locker that has kept its place at the end of the bed. With an angry grunt and superhuman strength, he tears the door off its hinges and throws it into the wall, leaving a huge, gaping hole in the sheetrock.

Dean pulls out his shotgun, the one he used to use when he went hunting with Sam, back when he was so happy and in love and whole. This time, however, he’s none of those things. All that’s left of him is broken. He takes a single wrought iron round and loads the gun, and without hesitation, he puts the barrel of the gun in his mouth and pulls the trigger, finally releasing every single hurt with one violent explosion. Then he falls to the floor, dead, his clothes soaking up his own blood.


End file.
